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I’d been having the same dream for the past month—the one where a dark stranger materialized out of smoke and shadows to play doctor with me. I was starting to wonder if repetitive exposure to nightly hallucinations resulting in earth-shattering climaxes could have any long-term side effects. Death via extreme pleasure was a serious concern. The prospect led to the following dilemma: Do I seek help or buy drinks all around?
“Is he in time-out?” Good question. “I have no idea why he’s in that corner. Been there since I rented the apartment.” “You rented the apartment with a dead guy in the corner?” I shrugged. “I wanted the apartment, and I figured I could cover him up with a bookcase or something. But the thought of having a dead guy hovering behind my copy of Sweet Savage Love gnawed at me. I couldn’t just leave him there. I don’t even know if he likes romance.”
After giving him a second to get his bearings, I pointed to the sign tacked on the outside of my bathroom door. “Memorize it,” I ordered, then slammed the door shut again. “ ‘No dead people beyond this door,’ ” he read aloud from beyond the door. “ ‘And, yes, if you suddenly have the ability to walk through walls, you’re dead. You’re not lying somewhere in a drainage ditch waiting to wake up. Get over it, and stay the hell out of my bathroom.’ ”
“You don’t look like the grim reaper.” “You’ve met him, have you?” “Well, no, not really,” he said. “My robe’s at the cleaners.” That got a sheepish chuckle. “And your scythe?” I shot him an evil grin and turned on the heater.
I looked for Uncle Bob. He stood about forty yards away, a spotlight casting an eerie glow around him as he gave me the evil eye. He’s not even Italian. I’m not sure that’s legal.
Never knock on death’s door. Ring the doorbell then run. He totally hates that.
There’s a certain responsibility that comes with having a name like Charley Davidson. It brooks no opposition. It takes shit from no one. And it lends a sense of familiarity when I meet clients. They feel like they know me already. Sort of like if my name were Martha Washington or Ted Bundy.
I did the only thing I could think of. I sprinted back to the abandoned school and grabbed a brick. “What are you doing?” she asked as I scrambled through the fence and rushed back to her. “Probably getting us killed,” I said as I took aim. “Or worse, grounded.”
She did, however, give me one pertinent bit of 411. She was the one who informed me that I had the attention span of a gnat; only, she said I had the attention span of a gnat with selective listening. At least I think that’s what she said. I wasn’t listening.
His apology left me feeling guilty for not being more … I don’t know, supportive. Maybe I needed sensitivity training. I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.
“I only have my mom. She knows how I feel about her,” he said, and I wondered if I should be happy about that or sad because his mother was all he had. “I’m glad,” I told him. “I wish more people took the time to make their feelings known.” “Yeah. I’ve hated her guts since I was ten. There’s really not much else to put in a letter.”
buts!” I had serious issues with the p-s word. We’d never really bonded.
“Were you just possessed?” Cookie asked after a long moment, awe softening her voice. “ ’Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, if that was possession, I’m selling my soul.”
“Carlos Rivera. He has an arrest record as long as my legendary and much-envied memory.” “So, no priors,” I said, holding back a chuckle. He squinted his eyes and tapped an index finger on his temple. “Like a steel trap.”
I totally needed to read that book on how to win friends and influence people. But that would involve an innate desire to win friends and influence people.
“I gotta do this or they’ll lock me up for talking to myself, Mr. Invisible.” A deep chuckle rose from his chest. “You here to get in my pants?” “Is it that obvious?” “Figures,” he said, disappointed. “I always attract the crazy ones.”
So what on Earth could be comparable to alien beings? Besides circus performers? It had to be someone living contrary to the norm. I could think of a couple of groups, but I felt strangely secure in the knowledge that Reyes was neither an IRS auditor nor a member of the Manson family. Thank goodness, because swastikas aren’t as easily accessorized as one might think.
While I was busy reminiscing about my first day on earth, I’d forgotten that I was falling to my death. Damned ADD. I was reminded quite effectively, however, when I stopped.
It seemed like the moment I lost consciousness, I found it again. It certainly wasn’t where I’d left it.
“Someone hit me.” “Again? I didn’t realize it was National Kill Charley Davidson Week.” “Do we get a vacation day with that?” Garrett asked.
Someone hit me. Someone tried to kill me. Had he succeeded, I could have died.
“And because of this false sense of security, you get yourself into the most … bizarre situations.” “Bizarre?” I asked, pretending to be offended. “Three words. Sewage plant disaster.” “That totally wasn’t my fault,” I argued, balking at the very idea of it. As if.
“Sure. We’re all just sort of stumbling through life, if you ask me.” “Still, this whole grim reaper thing should have come with a manual. Or a diagram of some kind. A flowchart would have been nice.” “Oh, you’re right,” Cookie said with her supportive, I’ve-got-your-back head nod. “One with colored arrows, huh?” “And simple, easy-to-read yes/no questions. Like, ‘Did death incarnate visit you today? If no, skip to step ten. If yes, stop now, ’cause you are so screwed, girlfriend. You may as well call it a day. Take a deep breath, because this is going to hurt. You might want to phone a friend
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“When you eventually have to seek therapy, will I have to pay for it?”
Don’t fear the reaper. Just be very, very aware of her.
“I knew it. I knew you understood what that Vietnamese man said to me that day in the market. I could see it in your eyes.” I smiled and looked back at Reyes’s image, fell into him. “He said he liked your ass.” She gasped. “Why, that little perv.” “Told you he had the hots for you.” “Too bad he was small enough to fit into my cleavage.” “I think that’s why he liked you,” I said, a bubble of laughter slipping out.
“Unless you doused the woman in gasoline and set her on fire, I’m not sure her reaction was appropriate.” A half smile crept across my face. “I can assure you, no petroleum products were harmed in the making of that memory.”
“Someone tried to run you over in high school?” she asked, appalled. “Only that one time,” I answered.
I’d have a longer attention span if there weren’t so many shiny things.
“How about some coffee?” As if it were encrusted with precious jewels, I took the thick folder from him, then said absently, “I’d kill for some.” Oops. “No, I wouldn’t,” I assured him, glancing around the maximum-security prison. “I’ve never killed anyone. Except that one guy, but he had it coming.” My feeble attempt at humor seemed to relax Neil. An echo of a smile thinned his mouth. “You haven’t changed at all.” I bit my lower lip. “That’s probably bad, huh?” “Not in the least.”
Ninety-nine percent of the time I don’t carry a sidearm—hence the motivation to perfect my death stare. But today all the cool kids were packing. I felt like the girl who showed up at a formal dinner party in jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. Probably ’cause I did that once.
“It’s true, huh? I’m being haunted.” Demon Child sighed in annoyance. “Not haunted. Just watched.” I freeze-framed my tantrum and eyed her. “That’s called stalking, dear, and is in fact frowned upon in most cultures.”
I explained as quickly as possible how Reyes was more than human. How he looked and moved. How he had been there on the day I was born—at which point, I was sure Ubie went into some bizarre kind of trance brought on by the stress of it all.
I did my signature rolling of the eyes. “Puh-lease. That sign was totally superfluous. Honestly, Uncle Bob, how many times do we need to be reminded of the speed limit? No one’s gonna miss it.” He pulled in a deep, soothing breath. “I’m getting too old for this crap.”
“Sure. I’ll call a judge I used to date.” “Uncle Bob, we want the person you call to actually like you and want to do you a favor.” “Oh, she liked me. Every inch.” I paused midstride while a quiver of denial shuddered through me, then continued my walk to Misery.
“But, you’re his son,” I said, trying really hard to hate him. “You’re the son of Satan. Literally.” “And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson.” Wow. That was a bit harsh, but, “Okay, point taken.”
